Putrid Sex Object
by ZombieParade
Summary: Dave Strider's life is shit, and it just gets worse. See triggers inside


**Yep, more suffering Striders. I wasn't even going to post this, but I figured "Hey, why not?" There's probably going to be 3 or 4 chapters to this. Just a little thing, but something I had to get out of my brain and on to paper, I guess. Let me know what you think!**

**Triggers: Self harm, eating disorders, rape, major character death**

**...ohmygodwhathaveIdone...**

You're six years old when they bring Him home. His name is Calvin and it's been explained that this stranger will be his your older brother. It's also explained that he's not from your mommy's tummy, he's from some other lady's, but they couldn't take care of him anymore so now your parents are going to. You guess you're pretty alright with that.

Cal, as he goes by, is a lot older than you. He's about the age of 12-year-old Dirk. He's really nice, though, he plays with you and invites you around everywhere with him and Bro. Everything is great for the first couple of years.

When he and your Bro go into high school, it gradually changes. He stops playing with you as much and he doesn't want you to come with him anywhere, saying he's going to go do "Big kid stuff". You protest that you're a big kid, almost 8 years old. He laughs and pats you on the head and says he'll see you later. You go cry to your mom and she smiles, saying it's just a part of growing up.

Your brothers graduate when you turn 13 and they move out into their own apartment almost immediately. You feel kind of abandoned, to be honest. They just left for college and never really looked back.

You finished out middle school without hitch but as soon as you get into high school you get into the wrong crowd and start acting out a bit. By sophomore year, you're sneaking out on a practically nightly basis. You stop caring about school and your grades begin to suffer. Your parents get on your case a lot about barely passing or flat our failing classes and it really stresses you out. You try a few things to take the stress out of the equation; cigarettes, drinking, even weed.

But nothing helps quite like a razor on your arms. It's not for attention, and it's not to get rid of the eternal pain of life. It honestly just helps relieve the pressure from everything. There's just something about it. You're mom doesn't find it as great as you do, obviously. She cries when she finds your razors, and even harder when she sees the marks on your body. She keeps chanting "Why," and "You're so young." You tell her to fuck off. And she does, sobbing as she leaves your room with an "I love you" tossed over her shoulder. You don't answer her and you don't see her for the rest of the night.

You go to school the next day feeling, admittedly, a little guilty and you resolve to talk to her about it when you get home. You go through the day distracted and you're surprised when you hear the main office call you, you haven't even done anything in the last week or so. When you see your Bro in the office, you know something's up. He sees you when you walk in and jogs over to you, wrapping his arms around you. You freeze. The last time he hugged you was when you broke your leg skateboarding almost 5 years ago when you were ten.

"What's up?" You ask. He looks you in the face, takes off his shades, and sighs. His eyes are red and puffy and it's obvious he's been crying. What the hell?

He explains that earlier today, your parents were in a four car pile up and both were killed on impact. He goes on to say that you'll come live with him and Cal, they can't afford to move back home so they'll have to sell the house, you'll go to a new school and it'll be different but it'll be okay. After that, you don't really have the brain power to pay attention. You just keep opening and shutting you're mouth like you're about to say something but you never do. You just stare at him as he tells you to say something. You shake your head and bolt for the door. He calls after you but you can barely hear him through the blood rushing in your ears. You run out of the office, out of the building and down the street. Tears well up as you think of the last conversation you had with your mom. Well, if you can call it a conversation. She cried at you and you told her to get out and that was the end of it. You never apologized and you never said you loved her and now she's gone. She's gone. They're gone.

You sob through heavy breaths as you run past the shopping plaza a few blocks from your house. A car honks at you and you almost get hit, but you couldn't care less. You run past the movie theater and the record store and the sun is setting. It's dark when you get to your front door and it slams behind you when you go in. You sink to the floor in the doorway, bringing your knees to your chest and scream out curses as you slam your head against the wall. You stop crying only when there's nothing left in you to give.

You get up after a while, and you're lightheaded as hell when you walk into your bedroom. You know exactly what you're going for and you open the door in your desk, picking up the small box inside. You sit down in your desk chair, pulling out the contents of the box, a surgical blade, gauze, and tape, before pulling up your sleeve. You take a deep breath before proceeding to cope the only way you know how.

You finish with ten new, deep wounds on the inside of each forearm. The pain pulls a gasp from you every time you go over one with a new layer of gauze. You rip a piece of tape off of the roll to keep your wrap jobs in place.

There, good as new.

You leave the box and it's contents on your desk and a few moments later, find yourself in your parents room and oh, it smells like them. You walk over to their bed, lie down, and within minutes, you're carried to sleep.

"Dave." A rough voice calls your name and you reluctantly open your eyes. Bro stands above you. "C'mon. Wake up, kiddo." You raise your head, leaning your wait on your elbows raise halfway up. You see Cal at the doorway, gesturing for you to get up. You look between them for a while and finally get the gumption to try and sit up. You're head and arms feel like lead and it's a lot more difficult then you thought it'd be.

Thankfully, bro sees this and helps you the rest of the way into a sitting position before pulling your hands to help you stand. You wince at the pain that shoots through your arm and you really hope he didn't notice. You stumble foggily to the doorway and Cal puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes comfortingly. You brush it off and keep walking to your room. You start to pack your belongings in a duffle bag and you struggle to fight back fresh tears.

Looking to your desk, you see that your box is still open and all of the contents are out. You rush over and pack everything up, shoving it into a side pocket before continuing to pack. You only have a couple outfits, hopefully you'll come back at some point to get more. When your bag can't carry anymore, you leave your room.

You hop into the truck and try not to look back.

Bro and Cal live about an hour and a half away, in a shitty apartment, in a shitty neighborhood, in the shitty part of town. You're lucky to get your own room after Bro asks Cal to give you his, as Bro needs his for work, and he begrudgingly surrenders his living space. You gradually move most of your belongings to your new room, but it's hard to be at the old house, and harder to leave it. You'll admit that you hate it here. The new school is hell. Oh, don't get it wrong, the kids treat you like God, but you don't actually have any real friends.

Well, that's a lie. There is one kid who you'd consider a friend. He's a bit of a nerd, but he's also a really cool guy, a whole lot better than these people who fake liking you. His name is John and you're really starting to like him. Everyday you go home and stay in your room talking to him over the computer and the better you get to know him, the closer you guys grow.

You even go over to his place sometimes, but you could never invite him over to your place. You hate you're house and you're sure he would, too. It's small and cramped and the AC is always fucking broken. You have to go up 15 flights of stairs everyday coming home from school. You're room is really the only place you go. It has everything you need so you never really leave it.

Over the next few weeks you see that Cal has takes to the drink a little. Ok, a lot. Bro becomes really withdrawn and mostly stays in his room, not making any noise. You don't really change, you act the same at this new school as you did weeks ago at the old place.

Cal doesn't like that.

He doesn't like a lot of the things you do or are.

You get in fights a lot.

And sometimes it gets a little physical, you'll admit. He slaps you, openhanded, across the face, and you're honestly fine with that, you can be a shit and sometimes you deserve it. However you don't expect it the first time he slams a fist into your gut when he catches you trying to sneak out. It puts you on the floor and your dry heaving. He screams at you that you're a selfish, stupid kid that can't appreciate what he and Bro have done for you. He makes you feel like a piece of shit. But as bad as that was, it doesn't compare to the night you came home from your 17th birthday party thrown by your friends. It was all big boobs and big booze and it was all fucking fantastic. Until you came home.

You come stumbling in at three in the morning and shit, there's Cal on the couch, staring at a blank T.V. He turns to face you with a deadly look and you freeze.

"Where were you?" He gets up off the couch and walks over to you, just as drunk as you are, with a half bottle of Jack Daniels in hand.

"Why does it matter?" Your voice slurs a little and he smacks you across the face. It knocks you off balance for a moment but you catch yourself.

"Have you been drinking?!"

"Like you're one to fucking talk!" You yell, head tingling from the force of your voice. "I can drink if I fucking feel like it, you hypocrite." He's silent for a moment before smirking.

"Oh, I get it. You're a big man, now, huh? You wanna party and fuck and drink like a man? Here have a drink." He grabs you by the neck, bends you backwards, and pours warm whiskey into your mouth. You choke and sputter, shouting in surprise. You hear the music in Bro's room get louder, obviously trying to drown out the noise you're making. You wrestle yourself from his grasp and onto the floor, fighting the gags and tears because holy fuck your throat burns right now. You spit what you can onto the floor and Cal laughs cruelly, bending down to face you.

"That's awfully rude." He sings. "I hope you don't spit like that for your little boyfriend." You open your mouth to yell at him but he shoves your shoulders down to the ground. "Let's see, yeah?" You panic as he climbs on top of you, straddles your chest, and holds your arms down with his feet. His hand goes to your hair and he grips it tight, shoving your face into his crotch.

"Get the fuck off of me!" You shout. The music gets louder yet again and the man on top of you practically giggles.

"Say the magic work, young man."

"Fuck you!"

"If you insist." He guzzles down whiskey before discarding the bottle on the floor next to him. His now free hand goes to undo the zipper in his jeans and he pulls out his half hard dick. "Suck." You look him in the eye and bite your lips closed. "If you're going to be difficult about this, it's just going to be harder on you." His smile grows as he smacks the head of his cock to your lips. "Now open up." You thrash your head, but it doesn't last for long as he places his knees on either side of your head and squeezes your head still. His grip tightens in your hair and he pulls harshly. You hiss and he takes the opportunity to shove his fingers in your mouth, digging his nails into your gums and the underside of your tongue.

He opens your mouth forcefully and slips his dick inside. You scream, muffled by his fingers and cock, for your bro, but of course he doesn't hear you and he sure as hell doesn't come out of his room. It slips into the back of your throat and you gag violently, body thrashing as you kick and buck, trying to get him off of you. He pays you no mind, moaning as he thoroughly fucks your face, and after a while you just don't have anymore fight left in you. You simply lay there and cry silently, hopelessly gagging at the length in your throat.

He finishes in your mouth and you almost throw up at the feel and taste of it, but somehow, you manage not to. He paps you harshly on the face with a satisfied look and a "Go to bed, kid." He gets up and walks back over to the couch, sitting down starting, once again, at the powered off screen. You lay there for a moment, compose yourself, and stumble into your room, passing out as soon as your head hit's the pillow.


End file.
